


lovefool

by renjames



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming Out, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Sex Talk, Sexual Tension, Trans Grantaire, Trans Male Character, trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25715077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renjames/pseuds/renjames
Summary: Even though they have been hooking up for weeks now, Grantaire hasn't come out to Enjolras yet. How will he get the courage to do so when Enjolras is so out of his league? And how will him coming out as trans affect their "friends with benefits" relationship?
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 129





	lovefool

**Author's Note:**

> cw: internalized transphobia, brief mention of a trans man's genitals, implied sexual content, sex talk, struggles with coming out, smoking, alcohol, some self-deprecation
> 
> hey! so i know there isn't a lot of trans!grantaire fics out there, but as i project onto grantaire i decided to write one. the recommended music is lovefool by the cardigans because this fic is also embarrassingly fluffy. hope you enjoy it!

Grantaire and Enjolras shared an unusual routine for the past few weeks. Every Wednesday and Friday after the ABC meeting, they stayed behind, claiming to have something they need to get done in the Musain. Then, when everyone finally left, Grantaire caught Enjolras’s arm, and they sneaked into a tiny storage closet to hook up. 

The first time it happened, Grantaire found Enjolras jittering with nerves, his head consistently hitting the table next to his second cup of espresso. Grantaire carefully patted him on the shoulder to ask if he was okay. Enjolras replied by grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and kissing him senseless. Needless to say, Grantaire indulged in such opportunities. He got down on both knees after dragging Enjolras into that storage closet, and when they emerged again, Enjolras was boneless with pleasure. Just the way he deserved it. Just the way Grantaire liked it. 

It happened five more times; not that he was counting. He gave Enjolras what he needed, a couple of sloppy blowjobs and hickeys on his neck, and that was it. He let Enjolras come in his mouth, wiped his face, and then fled the scene. He refused Enjolras every time he offered to return the favour, avoided all his attempts at a civil conversation about why, Grantaire of all people, wouldn’t let Enjolras go down on him.

The thing is; Enjolras hadn’t known Grantaire before he transitioned, and since he hardly ever talked about being trans, this piece of information might have slipped his mind. He also could’ve very much been aware of it, just politely ignoring it, like the fact that Grantaire has had feelings for him for an embarrassingly long time. 

And Grantaire was scared shitless. Not because he thought Enjolras would be anything but kind if he were to come out, but because he has been told multiple times by people, especially cis gay men, that they just couldn’t be attracted to him. That, of course, he understood. He just wasn’t ready to face that kind of rejection from Enjolras. He wanted to take everything he was willing to give him, and so far it has all worked out. 

Except now Grantaire is attending a party in Enjolras’s apartment that he shares with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, and there‘s no missing the way he‘s making heart eyes at Grantaire from across the room. Suddenly, it‘s very hard to breathe, so Grantaire practically drags Eponine with him to the balcony, muttering something about cigarettes.

“Jesus fuck, R, what’s your deal?” Eponine asks, swatting his hands away from where he‘s desperately rummaging through her coat for a lighter. 

“I just needed to get out of there,” he mumbles through the cigarette trapped between his teeth, “Where’s your lighter?”

“Is this about Enjolras again?” Eponine lowers her voice, softening her tone as she wordlessly hands over her lighter from the pocket of her jeans. 

“Is anything _not_ about him?” Grantaire exhales, probably more dramatically than necessary. Eponine rolls her eyes, but then gives in and leans on the railing of the balcony next to Grantaire.

“Look, there’s really nothing for you to lose,” she starts, paying no mind to Grantaire shaking his head, “If he suddenly decides he doesn’t like you, I’m going to kick his ass. If he still likes you – which believe me, he _does_ because he was practically _undressing_ you with his eyes – then it’s all good. It’s a win-win.”

“It wouldn’t be his fault if he wasn’t attracted to me anymore,” Grantaire shakes his head again, hands twitching as he takes another long drag, “I just wanted to avoid that happening, you know? But now he realized something’s up so he wants me to talk about it, and it’s fucking horrible.”

“Just shut him up like you’ve managed so far.” Eponine offers.

“You’re supposed to be encouraging me to come out to him, dude,” sighs Grantaire as he flicks the remains of his cigarette into an empty flowerpot.

“R, if you want to come out to him, I know you can do it. And if you’re not ready, just tell him that.”

She pats him on the back, which is really all the kindness that he can expect from her, but it’s still more reassuring than anything anyone else would say to him It keeps his head from running on overdrive, this straightforward and easy way Eponine deals with problems.  
He straightens his back and grins, which might not reach his eyes, but makes him feel less serious than the whole situation really is.

“No, I think I’m ready to come out if that means I can fuck h–“

“No thanks, I don’t wanna know.” Eponine blocks her ears with her hands, immediately stepping back into the living room. Grantaire laughs as he follows her inside. 

They decide to get a drink before Eponine inevitably sends him after Enjolras, and judging by Grantaire’s sweaty palms and drumming heartbeat, it is much needed. They sit between Bahorel and Feuilly on the couch, and while Eponine engages in their heated discussion about some underground band, he drinks his glass of red wine a bit faster than intended. It’s probably the only alcoholic drink Enjolras likes the taste and smell of. Not that Grantaire’s choices have anything to do with him.

He sneaks back to the kitchen to refill his glass, and stuff his mouth with some of Jehan’s infamous strawberry macarons. He has about five minutes to himself, lamenting what his life has become, when someone jumps at him from behind. The glass of wine falls from his hand and shatters on the floor unceremoniously.

“Shit. Shit, I’m so sorry,” he hears Bossuet mumble, and then he sees a hand reaching down to gather the broken pieces of glass.

“Stop, you’re going to cut yourself! Get a proper mop first!” Joly appears from somewhere behind Bossuet, shrieking. Grantaire’s fairly sure they’re naturally joined by the hip at this point.

“Okay, true,” Bossuet agrees, smiling sheepishly. “I’m gonna go look for Enjolras and ask him. He wanted to talk to R anyway.”

And then he’s gone, and this is just too fast for Grantaire’s simple brain to process.

“Fuck,” he says, for a lack of better word.

“Shit, R, are you hurt?” Joly worries, examining the sharp pieces of glass at his feet.

“No, it’s fine. It’s just about, you know,” he swallows dry, “ _Him_.”

“Okay, will you tell me what’s going on between you and Enjolras?” Joly asks, voice soft as he places a careful hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I think I need to come out to him?” Grantaire’s voice trails higher at the end, which makes him wince automatically. He clears his throat, “Since we’ve been sort of messing around.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine with it,” Joly says, and Grantaire has to keep himself from shaking his head because that’s just _not_ the point, “I was so scared to come out to Musichetta when we started dating, Bousset had to practically carry me to her. And look at us now!”

“Yeah, but what are the chances that a cis gay man lightyears out of my league would choose me instead of a guy with a–“

The scornful look Joly gives him shuts him right up.

“Musichetta is straight. She never stopped liking me after I came out to her,” he says firmly, with a conviction of a doctor to be, “I know you deal with a lot of internalized transphobia, and believe me, I can relate to that, but you have to remember that trans men are real men. You are a real man.”

“Of course I‘m a real man,” Grantaire wiggles his eyebrows in a cheap attempt to lighten the mood, “I fuck cars, drink beer, hate my wife, and the only man I love is Jesus.”

He flails his hands around so dramatically, that he stumbles into the puddle of wine on the floor.

“But where is Jesus when I need him,” he sighs, looking mournfully at his white socks now soaking red with wine, “Or at least a paper towel.”

“On the counter behind you.”

Grantaire turns around so quickly he almost gives himself whiplash. It’s Enjolras standing there, of course, clutching a mop in his hands with such a determined grip he might as well be carrying the French flag into battle. Frankly, it should be ridiculous; Grantaire, however, finds it awfully endearing.

“Enjolras, fancy seeing you here,” he says, and maybe if he had an ounce of self-preservation, he wouldn’t let his gaze wander. He doesn’t.

“I’ve been here the entire time,” Enjolras huffs, and it passes Grantaire’s mind that he might be offended.

Then Enjolras _kneels down_ in front of the puddle of wine, in front of _Grantaire_ , who barely remembers how to breathe or that Bossuet has returned, and is watching them intently with Joly at his side, or that there are other things in this world than the sight of Enjolras in such close proximity. He tracks Enjolras’ movements with his eyes, the way he tucks the fluff of light hair behind his ear as the lamp casts a soft halo around his head.

“Oh, believe me, I noticed,” Grantaire bites his lower lip as the words slip out of his mouth.

Enjolras looks up at him, but it’s not the familiar sharp glance with ruthlessly cold eyes. It’s soft, it’s bashful, it’s full of jittery anticipation and embarrassment. Grantaire can’t help but drink in the sight of him, the slope of his neck, the planes of his chest and stomach, the slim curve of his waist, and possibly, everything under.

“Get a room you two, holy fuck.”

Grantaire whips his head away from Enjolras in an instant, getting flustered from head to toe as he listens to Joly and Bossuet snicker like two teenage boys at Musichetta’s half-annoyed, half-smug comment. He considers jumping out of the tiny kitchen window, but then the door opens again.

“I swear to god, Grantaire, I leave you alone for _ten_ minutes, and you’re already breaking things?”

Eponine tugs on her hair like a disgruntled mother, and he knows it’s to put on a show, to save him from more embarrassment, and Grantaire blows her a kiss in gratitude. Somehow she always manages to get him out of trouble; perhaps a Thenardier trait.

“Yeah, you know, I just saw Enjolras’ favourite wine glass, and went _apeshit_ ,” Grantaire deadpans, but he snatches the roll of paper towel from the counter behind, and squats down to help clean up the mess.

“I think Enjolras, in general, makes you go apeshit,” a cheery sounding voice says, which Grantaire recognizes belongs to Courfeyrac. He strolls into the kitchen and leans over Enjolras to take a bottle of ketchup out of the fridge. “Anyway, the pizza arrived, so get out of my kitchen, peasants.”

For the first time, everyone obliges. Grantaire mouths a thank you at Joly and Eponine as they leave because Grantaire really did need the encouragement. Even if he’s still just silently gathering the broken pieces of glass.

“How did you know this was my favourite?” Enjolras asks nonchalantly. Grantaire freezes in his place, eyes widening in shock.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to–“

Enjolras bites his lips. The corner of his mouth is curling upward, and a soft noise escapes his throat that tugs warmly on Grantaire’s heart before the realization dawns on him.

“You’re messing with me!” he exclaims, pointing an accusatory finger at Enjolras, who laughs properly this time, and Grantaire wonders if it’s just him, or the room really seems brighter.

“ _’There is no crueler tyranny than that which is perpetuated under the shield of law and in the name of justice,’_ ” Grantaire continues, shaking his head dramatically. He grins up at Enjolras, who stops laughing all of a sudden, and shit, maybe he didn’t quote properly, maybe Enjolras doesn’t read Montesquieu, maybe–

“You know that by heart?” Enjolras blinks. He plays with a stray strand of his hair, and Grantaire is painfully aware of that few inches of sticky floor between them, the way the man in front of him seems to have moved closer, their knees almost touching.

“I know many things,” he smiles carefully, hands twitching to reach out to Enjolras, “I learnt from the best.”

Enjolras licks his lips, eyes roaming over Grantaire as if he couldn’t get enough, couldn’t bear to miss a thing. It’s easy to blindly believe that, easy to let Enjolras get close with fingers hovering over his waist in a futile attempt to avoid pulling him even closer. There is no use in trying; Enjolras’ arms slowly wrap around his neck, one of his hands brushing through Grantaire’s hair so very gently. 

“Then you know we should talk,” Enjolras says, almost into his mouth, and Grantaire should probably do that, but kissing just one more time seems much more important to his mushy brain. His body moves on its own accord, and then they’re kissing, breathing in each other deeply, meticulously. There is only the sound of white noise and blood rushing through veins and lips touching. When they come up for air, Grantaire starts peppering kisses into the crook of Enjolras’ neck, jaw, and finally, the spot behind his ear, which he knows would send a shiver through his spine.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras groans in what might be either exasperation or pleasure. Grantaire hums against his hairline, slipping a hand into the back pocket of his jeans because he has no inhibitions whatsoever.

“No,” Enjolras breathes suddenly, and Grantaire’s hands retreat as soon as the word leaves his mouth. 

“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked–”

“No,” Enjolras clears his throat, and grabs Grantaire by his forearm, “We have to talk. I can’t talk while you’re touching me.”

Oh. Grantaire sighs in relief, but when the last words register in him, he just _has_ to be a little shit and smirk.

“Did I happen to find a _sensitive_ spot?” he teases, which is probably not the best idea, but Enjolras seems positively flustered even as he rolls his eyes.

“Come on,” he nudges Grantaire to stand up, “Let’s go to my room.”

Grantaire wants to say something about Enjolras bringing all his boys to his room like that, but he decides to shut up as they sneak into the room in question through the corridor. If their friends notice them, they don’t comment on it, or the sound gets lost in the loud music and laughter.

There’s no point in it, but Grantaire is overly conscious of the fact that he’s entering Enjolras’ personal space with just the two of them being there. It’s the same twin-sized bed by the windowsill, the same desk with the cluttered mess of books and office supplies perched over it. The same cushion in the corner, the same wall of photographs and drawings of his friends and some printed-out, ridiculous quotes haphazardly glued over it. It shouldn’t be anything new, but the air feels awfully thick and intimate.

“So,” Enjolras says as he turns on the lights and closes the door behind them, “I’m not entirely sure how to go about this.”

He sits down on the bed for just a second, fidgeting with the watch on his wrist.

“It’s fine, just say it,” Grantaire shrugs, feigning nonchalance. Though it probably isn’t what Enjolras needs right now, as he makes a displeased sound in his throat, and gets up to stroll up and down the room. Probably not a good sign. Grantaire should probably help him out, but before he has the chance to, Enjolras speaks again.

“This is going to be extremely invasive,” he manages, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “In fact, you don’t even have to answer. It’s none of my business, really.”

Sometimes Grantaire wishes he wasn’t such a fucking diplomat. 

Now. In normal circumstances, he doesn’t take joy in the suffering of others. However, he has to admit that there is plenty of satisfaction in witnessing the oh-so-eloquent Enjolras stumble over words. He would be smiling, were the conversation any less serious. So he just raises an eyebrow, waiting.

Enjolras halts to a stop in front of Grantaire. He is a nervous wreck, digging the nails of his shaky fingers into his palm. 

“I was just wondering... I’ve been meaning to ask you...“ 

Grantaire has to reach out and steady him with a hand on his wrist. He smiles up at him in a way he hopes is encouraging. Enjolras exhales. 

“I would like to know about your boundaries regarding sexual intimacy if that’s something you would feel comfortable sharing with me,” he says all at once, “You don’t have to answer, as I said this is very much invasive, and I don’t want to assume that the. The _things_ we did would continue. Please don’t feel like you owe me anything, because you don’t, I–”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire laughs, squeezing his hand tightly, “Take a breath sometimes, will you?”

“I’m sorry,” he smiles faintly as he evens out his breathing, “I may have gotten a bit carried away.”

Grantaire is fairly sure he will never get over the fact that Enjolras is real.

“That’s alright,” he whispers, and brings one of Enjolras’s hands to his mouth, kissing his knuckles gently, “I can tell you about everything. But you have to know that I wasn’t completely honest with you.”

Enjolras furrows his eyebrows, “In what way?”

Grantaire surpasses the urge to pull on his hair or bite his nails or something equally as unattractive, and just continues to hold onto Enjolras’s hand like his life depends on it. 

He keeps his gaze down on his shoes as he says, “I’m trans. You might have figured it out already, but I never actually told you.”  
For a few seconds, Enjolras doesn’t react, and the silence feels like it wants to eat Grantaire alive. His heart beats so fast he can hear it thrumming in his ears, and the adrenaline in his blood begs him to flee, but Enjolras isn’t pushing him away. He moves to wrap his arms around him, scooping him up in a hug. 

“Thank you for telling me.” Enjolras’s voice is tender, and Grantaire has no doubt he means it, that he actually feels grateful for being trusted like this. Grantaire smiles against his shoulder. He holds Enjolras close, arms around his waist, breathing in the smell of his hair as the tension in his back slowly eases. 

“You knew it, huh?” he asks into the crook of Enjolras’s neck. He doesn’t dare to look up.

“I’ve... had my suspicions, but wasn’t sure,” Enjolras says, fumbling with the material of Grantaire’s hoodie, “It doesn’t change anything though.”

Grantaire’s heart bumps against his ribcage. “Are you sure?”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras’s hands freeze between his shoulder blades. There’s a sort of strictness to his voice that can mean anything from concern to anger. “I hope you realize I’m not lying to you and that I can make my own choices about–”

Grantaire huffs in frustration. 

“I know you always think you’re sure about everything, Enjolras,” he says, “But I don’t just want to be your charity case.”

It’s definitely anger. Enjolras’s eyes seem deep and foggy, the arch of his nose hard, the crease between his eyebrows heavy. The air is colder as he withdraws his hands from Grantaire’s back. 

“Grantaire,” he draws in a breath, “Have you seen me _kissing_ homeless LGBT youth? The cancer patients from the hospital? The old ladies in the retirement home?”

“Who knows what you’re up to these days,“ he shrugs just to be absolutely insufferable.

“Or perhaps having sex with them? Do you think this is what I do with my so-called charity cases?” Enjolras hisses, not even batting an eye at Grantaire’s comment, “You may be right about things I do not dare to admit, but this time you are completely in the wrong.”

Grantaire scratches the stubble on his chin. 

He knows Enjolras. He knows the intricate framework of his brain. He knows him and believes him, or at least desperately wants to. And when he speaks again, it’s two-thirds teasing and only one-third the need for reassurance. 

“Very well then,” he slides his hands into his pockets, “What am I wrong about? I’m afraid that the appropriate citation is severely lacking, sir.”

Enjolras looks him in the eye, furious and wild, and so so breathtaking. Grantaire can barely breathe, can barely exist under that gaze, and when Enjolras moves to cup his jaw, he just melts into the touch obediently.

They kiss, and it’s as deep and thorough as before, their lips colliding with ease. Enjolras hovers over Grantaire, trying to steady himself by holding on to the other man’s thighs. It’s nothing but a simple touch; Grantaire still draws Enjolras closer, shaky fingers lacing into fine curls of hair at the nape. Their teeth clack against each other once, twice, as Enjolras practically presses him on the bed. Then he sits up, leaving Grantaire confused, breathless and more than a little turned on.

“So,” he licks his lips thoughtfully, which really doesn’t help Grantaire’s ability to concentrate on anything else, “Is that enough proof for you?”

“I’m not sure,” Grantaire sighs dramatically, tracing circles into Enjolras’ palm, “I think I need more convincing...”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Enjolras rolls his eyes, but he seems impossibly fond, barely able to suppress a smile, “But we have to talk first.”

Grantaire lets him go. He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Right. You wanted to talk about boundaries.”

Enjolras nods, but averts his eyes. He seems shy suddenly. “I need to ask you something first.”

Grantaire raises one eyebrow. “Sure.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath. He holds onto Grantaire’s hand again.

“As I’ve mentioned before, I like you. I would like to ask you out, if that’s fine.” 

Grantaire’s head spins a little, but Enjolras’ hands hold him down so he stays in the present, on the ground, on the bed. 

“If that’s fine, he says,” Grantaire mumbles. “Of course it’s fine. More than fine. Very fine.”

“Very fine,” Enjolras echoes, beams at him, and it’s too sunny, too gold for Grantaire to handle. He wants, needs something to capture him like this, a camera, a canvas, a sketchbook, something. He only has his hands; he frames Enjolras’s face with them, touches, observes. Enjolras melts into it, closes his eyes. 

“So,” Grantaire starts, “Do you have any questions?

Enjolras blinks lazily, “About what?”

“About me. You. Sex. You know,” Grantaire has to bite back a stupid smile when that makes Enjolras’ head perk up. He squirms in his seat. 

“I was just thinking... You could tell me about what you like and don’t like?” Enjolras starts, and swallows nervously. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, and I’ve probably done that since you left every time. After sex.”

“That’s not your fault,” Grantaire shakes his head. “You know I’m a coward. I wasn’t out to you and that scared the shit out of me for some reason.”

Enjolras frowns, a familiar stern look returning to his face. “You’re not a coward. It’s your choice who you come out to or sleep with. You weren’t ready, and that is completely fine.”

Grantaire buries his face in his hands. “Stop being so perfect and understanding, I didn’t sign up for this.”

“It’s basic human decency, Grantaire.”

“Well, it’s making me want to fuck you even more,” Grantaire blurts out. He removes his hands from his face, and blinks, “Please tell me I didn’t say that out loud.”

“You did.” Enjolras ducks his head shyly. “I wouldn’t be opposed to it though.”

“Oh. Well, I guess now I can tell you that I prefer to top,” Grantaire lowers his voice, like he’s telling a secret, “I have a nice collection of dicks at home you can choose from.”

Enjolras looks infinitely embarrassed. It’s a sight to behold, a sight that burns into Grantaire’s mind.

“Could I touch you too?” He asks, suddenly meeting Grantaire’s eyes. 

“Yes. Although some days will be worse and I might not even want you to look at me” Grantaire admits, tapping his feet against each other nervously. “Other times I could be up for anything. Except for feminine nicknames or calling my genitals, well, female parts.”

Enjolras nods, and because it’s Enjolras, he really seems like he just gets it. 

“Of course. Just whatever you are comfortable with and enthusiastically consent to.”

Grantaire sighs, completely smitten. “I love how you can make talking about sex sound like activism.”

Enjolras smiles a little. “I can’t seem to help myself.”

“Me neither. Not around you.” Grantaire says, and presses their lips together softly. “Now let’s go outside before someone inevitably walks in on us hooking up.”

“Seems like a good idea,” Enjolras agrees.

Grantaire stands to open the door for him.

“Wait,” Enjolras says. 

He takes Grantaire’s hand in his like it’s natural. Like it belongs there.

Maybe it does. 

They walk back to the party holding hands.


End file.
